Sugar
by PenPistola
Summary: Of all the strip joints in all the towns in all the world, Eames walks into the one where Arthur is a pole dancer.


**From the Inception kink meme:**

**Prompt:** Eames goes to a gay strip club for some time off and winds up seeing Arthur workin the pole. It takes him more than a totem to realize he's not dreaming.

**A/N:** Possibly the best part about writing this was the research I did to figure out how male pole dancers actually perform. Seriously. Arthur/Eames, 3143 words. These keep ending up long! Rated R for Raunchy. Inception—don't own, don't sue.

Eames didn't feel bad about skiving off a couple of hours early after a day like this one. He'd known as soon as he'd gone in for the job that something was going to go wrong. The architect was inexperienced, too old to go into the dream-building business and be imaginative enough to pull it off, and the extractor was a bumbling idiot. Eames had known he was too good to be working with them, but he'd done it anyway; he needed the money, and extraction jobs were becoming scarce with the government crackdowns of late. This time, it had only taken twenty minutes for something to go wrong. The subject was a highly intelligent pharmaceutics developer who had been fooled by Eames, but saw through the extractor's lame attempts at weaseling his secrets out of him. His projections had ripped the extractor's head off, and gutted Eames. It had taken him a whole five minutes to die, and he'd woken up panting and sweating. The failure of an extractor had shoved a small wad of cash in his hand before he ran out on Eames to let him deal with it by himself. The subject's security guard had chased him down five flights of stairs and across half the complex before he'd made it out a back exit and onto the street. Eames had been told to take a roundabout path back to the hideout, lose the tails along the way and wait for instructions if something went wrong, but when he'd finally made it back, there was no one there. Eames had waited another hour before deciding to cut out. He'd already made his basic fee anyway. Now the wad of hundred dollar bills was burning a hole in Eames' pocket, and he had a good idea of how he wanted to spend it.

The blinking neon sign of The Butterfly Lounge had always attracted Eames' attention when he'd walked by it, but he'd always been too busy to stop in. Now, though, he had the whole afternoon off, and there was nothing stopping him from checking it out. He let out an appreciative hum at the posters stapled to the cork board right outside the door. Apparently Wednesday was pole dancing day, which seemed intriguing if nothing else. He pushed open the heavy black doors and let the faint aromas of smoke and sweat and the pounding bass wash over him. It was a fairly high-class establishment with plush booths and stools surrounding a curved poured-concrete bar, multicolored spotlights and gobos providing a rainbow of mood lighting. The crowd was mostly men, a little thin at this hour but there nonetheless, clustered around the bar like a water hole in the desert. Most of them were dressed like they'd just got off work, but a couple half-naked young men in hot pants and cowboy hats meandered here and there, and Eames' eyes tracked them. Quality; he'd have to remember this place.

Eames slid onto a sparkly blue stool and rapped his knuckles on the bar counter, and a young man with long, curly hair and an adorable baby face sauntered over. "Martini, straight up, thank you," Eames smiled, and the bartender set about mixing the drink. Eames glanced over at the stage, which stretched across one side of the largely unoccupied dance floor with another row of stools in front of it. "Ta," he winked as the bartender placed the cocktail in front of him. "Say, when does the, ah..." he motioned at the three brass poles at the forefront of the stage.

The bartender barked out a laugh. "About five minutes ago, really, but our best dancer is a bit of a diva. Got to make sure his hair's right and all."

"Ah," Eames chuckled, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "Guess I'll go get a front row seat then, before he comes out and everyone sees what they're missing." He threw down a twenty, took his martini and strolled casually over to the stage. He picked a stool next to the only other man near the stage, a young guy in tight jeans. "Is he quite good?" he asked between flipping the olive toothpick over and over in his mouth.

The young man turned to him and grinned. "Oh, he's something alright." Just then the bass line which had been droning in the back of Eames' consciousness cut out, leaving the whole bar eerily quiet. A single red light cut on over the central pole, and the attention of every man in the bar suddenly snapped in its direction. "Speak of the devil."

There was a faint hiss as the loudspeakers cut on, and then the musical cue began, '_Step inside, walk this way. You and me, babe, HEY HEY!_'

Eames blinked as the Def Leppard drums and guitar riff cut in, and the lights overhead began flashing multicolored in every direction. A slender form strutted from a red-lit door at the back of the stage, swaying in time to the music. Eames couldn't see much of him under the crazy lights, but he could tell from a distance that this guy was a professional. He moved easily, sinuously, swinging one-armed off one pole to the next and stopping when he reached the one in the middle. This close, Eames had to grin at the dancer's attire. He was in a pair of sinfully tight leather pants and a leather vest, which was standard, but under the vest he wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It almost reminded him of Arthur—a thought that should not have been arousing as it was. He could imagine it was Arthur up there, throwing off his vest and ripping the whole row of buttons off his shirt. But Arthur would never treat a shirt like that, much less be caught dead pole dancing. The dancer was down to just the pants and a pair of black fingerless gloves now, arms above his head and grinding his ass against the pole behind him. The chorus of the song started in. '_Pour some sugar on me! Ooh, in the name of love!_' Eames tried to keep from salivating as the dancer thrust his hips against the pole in time to the song. '_Pour some sugar on me! C'mon, fire me up! Pour your sugar on me, I can't get enough!_' Then he gripped it firmly, and in one easy movement flipped his entire body up the pole so that he was upside down, holding on with one leg and spinning. '_I'm hot, sticky sweet, from my head to my feet, yeah!_' Then his hands came off the pole, and the leg he wasn't using to grip it extended to a point entirely perpendicular to the line of his body. Eames was quite impressed by his feat of upper body strength, not to mention the way those mind-blowingly hot pants hugged his amazing ass.

By now a small crowd had formed around the stage. This guy really was quite good. He was at the top of the pole now, upside down and gripping it with his hands while his legs jackknifed as he spun. He started shimmying downwards, undulating almost obscenely against the metal pole until his hands touched the ground and he did a neat backflip. He threw one leg around the pole and swung, sliding lower and lower until he was seated on the floor with his head thrown back, eyes closed and chest heaving. He was so close now, and the lights had ceased flickering as the music died down. Eames was finally able to get a clear look at his smooth, pale skin, angular jaw, longish dark hair thrown half over his eyes-

"Oh my God," said Eames.

"He is pretty damn good, isn't he?" the young man from earlier grinned, clapping Eames on the back, who shoved his hand into his pocket and began toying with his poker chip.

"Oh my God," said Eames.

The dancer had opened his eyes, looking vaguely in his direction.

"I know, I keep telling my boyfriend we need to come down here and see him, but Alonzo really just isn't interested. I told him it was a shame, but-"

Eames and the dancer locked eyes.

"Oh my God!" Eames yelled this time, and it was enough to attract a bit of attention as Eames scrambled forward and the dancer hastily crab-walked backwards, away from the edge of the stage. Eames leaned over the lip of the platform, peering through the blue gobo light. "Arthur?"

There really wasn't any doubt about it. Arthur looked like he wanted to disappear up the pole and into the ceiling (which he probably could have, Eames thought somewhere in the back of his head). He hastily retrieved his shirt and leather vest from the floor, made a quick jerking motion with his head toward a hallway in the back, and stalked off before Eames could say anything.

"Do you... do you know that guy?" asked the young man, but Eames didn't hear it as he turned to follow.

There was a sign over the hallways that said 'To Bathrooms and V.I.P. Rooms' and despite the complete and total awkwardness of the situation, Eames couldn't help but be a little bit excited as Arthur grabbed him by the collar and practically threw him into the first empty private room. Eames bounced off the wall, eyes wide.

"Eames, what the _hell_ are you doing here?" Arthur panicked, hands fisted in Eames' shirt.

Eames let out an astonished laugh, "Me? What am _I_ doing here?"

"Oh, fuck me." Arthur backed off a bit, fingers rubbing at his temples. "Nobody I knew was supposed to see me here, but really, this is you we're talking about. Of all the strip joints in all the—ugh! I should have known that no matter what city I chose to hide in, you'd find it."

Eames supposed he was meant to be feeling sorry for Arthur right now, but all he could do was notice gleefully the way Arthur's muscles moved under his still shirtless skin. He didn't take his eyes off Arthur as he spoke, but Arthur was too busy being freaked out to notice. "So you picked a gay strip club to hide in. This was your idea of lying low, was it, darling?"

"Oh shut up, Eames," Arthur growled, the shock finally giving way to irritation. "I didn't think anyone would look for me here. Extraction jobs were getting so scarce that I started taking the seedier ones, and they've caught on to me. Nobody was supposed to find me, much less _you_." He punctuated the last word with a finger jabbed in Eames' chest.

"Oh, now, Arthur-" Eames started, but Arthur had already turned away and slung his vest over his shoulder.

"I have to go," he muttered. "I have to do a... murhphsumbleshns..."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "You have to what?"

He was talking to an empty room.

Soft Cell's "Tainted Love" was blaring over the loudspeakers as Eames emerged into the club's main area again. The poker chip he kept flipping over in his pocket was giving him a headache. He made a beeline for the bar—as mind-blowing as today had been, more drinks sounded heavenly. He tried a couple of vodka shots this time, and his throat burned pleasantly as he took his stool by the stage again.

"I saved it for you," explained the young guy, who had by now introduced himself as Neal. Neal took in Eames' rather roughed up appearance, the way his hair was mussed and his collar open and wrinkled. "You guys didn't...?" he asked, eyes wide.

"No, no," Eames waved him off dejectedly. "Not quite."

Just then the previous song ended and Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again" started up. The lights came on again in the doorway, drawing Eames' attention as three dancers made their way out in nothing but scandalous leather hot pants. Eames grinned; one of them was Arthur. The trio of dancers approached the poles near the edge of the stage but their dance moves were more routine this time; plenty of grinding, pelvic thrusts and some surprisingly fancy footwork. Arthur really was damned good at this, moving his body sensuously and perfectly in time with the music. "How did that stick in the mud ever learn to do this?" Eames wondered aloud as the dancers moved closer to the edge of the stage and the people watching began to hold bills over their heads. Eames quickly shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out the wad of cash the extractor had given him earlier.

Neal caught sight of the cash and grinned appreciatively. "Nice. Your second chance at getting a little action, eh?"

Eames was irritated by now, but he managed a nod. He used his bulk to shoulder aside a couple of guys who were edging in around him and waved aloft a hundred dollar bill. So far Arthur hadn't graced anyone else's face with his... presence, but Eames was holding out hopes that the money would be enough to attract him over. "Arthur!" he tried calling.

Arthur grinned and strutted over, catching sight of the hundred. He leaned in close—Eames was getting excited now—and whispered, "Over my dead body, Eames. And quit calling me by my real name. I'm Harley here." He danced away, leaving Eames mildly flabbergasted. _Harley?_ At least Neal had the good sense not to comment on this new development. Eames set his jaw and reached back in his pocket for another hundred. He waved them over his head, fluttering them. Arthur caught his gaze, then moved closer to the edge of the stage and began grinding against Neal's face. Neal. Who hadn't offered a single twenty. Neal, who was grinning and stroking Arthur's thighs as Arthur turned to Eames and winked at him. WINKED. AT. HIM. Eames could have sworn right then that Arthur was _enjoying_ this. Bitch.

"Oh ho ho, alright," Eames chuckled darkly under his breath. He flipped through his cash wad and pulled out three more hundreds. All that was left were twenties and tens, but Eames didn't notice, nor did he care. He flailed the arm like a madman, and one of the other dancers caught sight of it and immediately started over. "No! Fuck off!" He used his other arm to shoo the confused young dancer away. Finally Arthur turned in his direction and spied the five fanned hundred dollar bills. He kept staring even as he ground into some other dude's lap, his eyebrows knitted like he was actually considering it. Eames grinned gleefully. "Come on, love! You could buy a suit with this money, is all I'm saying."

Arthur finally left the other guy alone and made his way over, frowning. "Cheap one, maybe. Fuck... I'll take it." He grabbed the cash and wadded it into the waistband of his shorts, and Eames' mouth fell open. Which meant he got a mouthful of leather when Arthur yanked on his hair and pulled his face into his crotch.

"Rawwwr," said Eames, half-smothered. His hands automatically went to Arthur's ass—was _that_ what he'd been hiding under those dress slacks all these years? Arthur made what sounded like a purring noise in the back of his throat as Eames' hands squeezed, stroking his sides and down his thighs. Arthur slid down his body, using his hold on Eames' shoulders to guide himself into the larger man's lap. Eames squirmed as Arthur hooked his legs around the stool and ground against him once, very very slowly.

"Yeah, you like that," Arthur grinned against Eames' ear as Eames' body shuddered involuntarily. "Do you?"

"Unh... yeah," Eames groaned. Arthur's hands were wandering, under his jacket, down...

"'Cause it's another twenty bucks." Arthur's hand finally found his pocket, snatching out a rumpled bill triumphantly. He pressed hard against Eames so their cocks were rubbing as Eames' mouth gaped open.

"I just," he grunted, "wanted to let you know that I hate you. Very much."

"Mutual, Mr. Eames. Mutual." His words belied the deliciously turned-on expression he wore as he rode Eames into the stool. Eames was furious but he could feel all the blood rushing away from his head to his crotch, his body too limp to attempt to do anything about it. And even Arthur couldn't help it—he was getting hard too, Eames could feel it through his shorts, and god _damn_ but it felt good, he thought, breathing going husky and ragged, and shit, he was close—

And then Arthur was sliding off and climbing back onto the stage, eyes bright and grin unnervingly wide despite the outline of his rock-hard cock in his shorts. Eames felt a bit like he couldn't breathe. He was so hard, _so hard_ and Neal was grinning at him and he desperately wanted to punch the man's lights out. But more than that he wanted to rip off Arthur's stupid little shorts and fuck him into the V.I.P. room wall. Arthur was dancing with one of the other performers now, the one Eames had shooed off earlier. He wasn't sparing Eames so much as a glance.

"Fuuuuuck!" Eames cursed loudly. His legs were wobbly as he slid off his stool and climbed to his feet. Nobody was paying him much attention but he was humiliated by the whole thing anyway. And five hundred and twenty dollars out, goddammit. He waddled off to the restrooms as delicately as he could. If he didn't rub out a quick one now, he'd fucking explode.

Sounds of people making out floated from under the first stall, so Eames banged on the one at the end and it opened. He collapsed against the wall after locking the door, cursing as he hastily undid his belt and his fly and pulled himself out. "Fuck, shit, Arthur, goddammit, fucking cocktease," he hissed as he jerked himself furiously. He was barely able to grab a handful of tissue before he came—he wasn't keen on Arthur seeing him in a stained suit—and then he was biting his lip so the couple down the way wouldn't hear him as he slid limply down the wall. The absolutely disgusting wall. Eames held his head in one hand and raged silently in his head. His other hand snaked down to his pocket, feeling around. His totem was there, still disappointingly real, but he reached past it and pulled out his (quite diminished) wad of cash. He straightened it out hopefully. Fifty-three dollars and two cents. Fuck. Canadian cents; not even the right ones. And something else, slipped in between two dollar bills. A little scrap of paper that hadn't been there before. Eames unfolded it out of curiosity, blinking at the note scrawled there in Arthur's all-caps print.

'For a (free) good time, call Harley Chacha, xxx' followed by '504-555-3984'.

Despite the fact that he was lying on the floor of a strip-club men's room, unbuttoned, disheveled and significantly poorer, Eames grinned.


End file.
